


Dr Watson's Stories: Plain Tales from a Plain Man:  Many Waters

by Stavia_Scott_Grayson



Series: Dr Watson's Unpublished Stories [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 11:11:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15047576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stavia_Scott_Grayson/pseuds/Stavia_Scott_Grayson
Summary: This is the second of Dr Watson's Tales.





	Dr Watson's Stories: Plain Tales from a Plain Man:  Many Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Watson wrote this some time after Mycroft's visit to him in Part 14 of Since First I Saw Your Face

**Dr Watson’s Unpublished Stories.**

**Plain Tales of a Plain Man.**

**Tale 2: Many Waters**

‘My dear Watson,’ said Holmes to me one morning as we finished our coffee and eggs. ‘I have here a letter from one you will remember. It is from Ruth.’

‘Indeed?’ I replied, noting that he spoke with rather more interest than he was wont to show on hearing of correspondence that brought us no case. ‘And does it go well with her? It was an affair of some depth, that one, was it not?’

‘It goes well with her. With both of them, now they are together, and happily settled in their Arcady. Yes, it was a strange business. She gives you permission now to tell her story: perhaps, she says, it will be of use. There are others like her, after all.’

‘It was a singular case, and one which, I confess, I found enlightening.’

‘Confess that you found it more than enlightening, my dear fellow. I have never seen you so moved. I believe you took very kindly to her’

‘Very well then, I confess it. I felt for her, loving for so long and so torn. And until I had spoken to her, I had not fully understood how like . . . ah, Holmes . . . ?’

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing. It is nothing.’ I was silent, for as happened so often, my heart had failed me at the last -  and I dared not speak to him of what was in it. ‘But yes, my dear Holmes, I will tell her story.’

****

**_Many waters . . ._ **

_‘Here, Ruth, take these. No, stay, you will not be able to pin them straight: let me. Bend your golden head, my dearest.’_

_The speaker, a tall, slender woman, dark-haired, grey eyed, of an exquisite grace, laid down her burden of roses – such wonderful roses, pearl pale, blushed pink, with here and there a crimson bud, half-unfolded – and caught up a comb. ‘You have disarranged this curl, come, let me smooth it, and adorn you. You must look fine for your groom. What, so silent?’_

_‘There is nothing to say. You know with what spirit I go to this marriage, Judith. You call me your dearest – I wonder that you should choose to part with me, if I am so.’_

_Judith’s hands, busy about the flowers, weaving them with a narrow silk ribbon into a coronet, stilled for a moment. ‘Dear Ruth, you know I do not choose, and nor do you. What else can we do?’_

_‘We could go on as we are.’ Ruth took up a rose, trying it against her white silk. ‘Oh, the thorns are sharp!’_

_‘Give me your hand, you are bleeding. Show me, have you stained the silk? Yes, there is a drop. Ruth, I cannot wash this out in time and it is on the bodice. It will show.’_

_‘Pin a rose over it then: I care not. It seems fitting, when it is my heart that bleeds. I care not.’_

_In silence, Judith bound her friend’s hand. With nimble fingers, she fashioned several of the crimson roses into a corsage, and placed them precisely to cover the bloody mark. ‘There, the stain is covered.’_

_‘It still remains though. Judith, why, why must I marry?’_

_‘Dearest, you agreed it would be best, did you not? We cannot – the world does not – you did not think we would be together always, surely? When the time comes, all friends must part.’_

_‘Are you not ashamed to speak so coldly?’ Ruth’s blue eyes were fierce. ‘Have we not been more than friends? Have we not, my gallant Rosalind, like Juno’s swans, still been coupled and inseparable? Have you not rested on my breast, have not our hands, our limbs been entwined together in chaste and gentle sleep. Have your lips not pressed mine in dear affection and most tender love?’’_

_‘My Celia, yes! Oh, my dearest heart!’ Judith, pale as death, caught Ruth’s form in her arms, clasping her feverishly to a panting breast. Ruth lay in her embrace almost in a swoon, eyes closed. Tears stole from beneath her eyelids, and Judith wiped them away. ‘I – I want this marriage no more than you, my dearest Ruth. It is death to me to part with you.’_

_‘Then do not so.’ Ruth twisted, pushing back to look her friend in the eye. ‘Let us – let us run away, Judith, far away, where no-one can find us. We will need so little if we are together. Could we not – could we not have a cot in the wood, as Rosalind and Celia did, or house like the birds and forget all but ourselves? The world is so wide: is there no little place that will give us shelter?’_

_‘You know you could not do that.’ Judith released her friend. ‘We cannot do that. We are not children, Ruth, to live in Arcadia. The world has eyes on us both, and it likes us not together. There is already talk, my dearest. James threatens our livelihood, our means of living. Charles whispers slyly of our being together, of our living as – as a couple, almost. Of our affection being a - a Sapphic love, and so forbidden. The world looks harshly on those who cannot, who do not obey its rules. I do not – not want to see you the subject of foul innuendo, of obloquy, of scorn, your reputation blown upon, your standing in the eyes of the world lessened. I do not want to see the world draw its skirts aside when you pass by, your friends abandon you. Men and women must marry, it is the way of the world, which likes not those – those friendships which are more. And it is – it is not so very bad. He is a good man, your betrothed, and will be kind to you. You – you have an affection for him, do you not?’_

_‘I do, Judith, as a friend. But I do not love him. Is it not wrong to marry without love?’_

_‘Without affection, certainly, but you do not do that. And your spouse – it is clear - feels a like affection. We – we can still be friends, Ruth. That – that will not change. To marry is normal, it is the natural thing to do.’_

_Ruth turned back to the dressing table. ‘Yes, it is the normal, the natural thing to do. So I must do it, it seems.’_

_‘You – you know – you know – would it have been easier – if, if I - ?’_

_‘It could not be you, Judith, and I would not ask it of you. You to marry! As soon ask chaste Dian to stoop to a mortal lover: it is gentle you are with me, but any hapless Actaeon would die from your scorn. And I could not bear it if – to think of you - no, it cannot be you. Forgive me, dearest, for complaining. I know, I know why I must. I know we are hard pressed: James’ malice, Charles’ greed, Henry’s moralising and his hunger for the law encompass us.. We are beset; there are snares on every side. I know we can do naught but what we do. But I do not want to.’_

_‘Nor I.’ Judith resumed her tying of the roses. ‘Ruth . . .’_

_‘What is it? Your hands are shaking.’_

_‘It is not – it is not only that.’_

_‘What then?’_

_‘Men speak of – of Sapphic loves. I – we have not spoken of it but, but I fear . . . I fear the strength of my affection for you. I fear it is – too much. That what I – want – is too much. That is – also – why you – you must marry.’_

_‘You do not know what I consider too much. You have not asked me. You will not ask me. There is nothing you could ask that I would not give, Judith.’_

_‘But you do not – not know what I would ask, my Ruth.’_

_‘There is nothing.’_

_‘And that is why. You will be safer with him, Ruth. I am – not safe.’_

_‘It is you I choose, safe or not. Think, Judith! Once I am bound, I am bound. It is my wedding morn. Yet even now, I will choose you, if you will have me. Only ask me.’_

_‘I cannot.’_

_‘No, it is that you will not.’_

_‘I do this for you.’ There were tears in Judith’s eyes. ‘I do this for you, for your safety. Please, Ruth, do not gainsay me.’_

_‘My namesake followed her friend into exile sooner than leave her. Do you think I would not do the same?’_

_‘My namesake – never married. I love no-one but you. But we cannot marry. If there is to be any hope for us henceforth as friends, then we must – we must do this. It is this, or part forever. My dearest, please . . .’_

_‘Is this truly your will?’_

_‘It is.’_

_‘I see the lie in you, Judith. Will your truth not answer to mine?’_

_‘Here is the truth: that if we are not to be punished – if you are not to be punished, then you must marry, or I must.’_

_‘Then I must. Twine no more roses for me, Judith: it is more fit that I should wear the bitter rue.’_

_They parted with one last embrace, one last look. Ruth went uncrowned to her wedding, with only the red roses at her breast. What her marriage was to her, she never said. Judith lived lonely thereafter. Their friendship changed, as friendships do after marriage for both men and woman. After some years, Judith moved away, and they were lost to each other. Were they happy? Who knows what secrets lie hidden in the heart, concealed from a world that is unkind? Two things are certain, that whatever grief may come from following the heart, it is not greater than the grief of denying it. And time lost comes not again._

**. . . cannot quench love**

There were roses on our table, wonderful roses, pearl pale, blushed pink, with here and there a crimson bud, half-unfolded. By our window stood a woman in mourning black, no longer young, her golden hair greying, her once-blue eyes faded. In her hand was a letter, sealed.

‘And so, Mr Holmes, I have come to you, as so many have, to ask for your help. Our enemies are dead.  I do not know where Judith is, and I cannot find out. Too many years and too far a distance have parted us. But I cannot wait any longer to search for her. I am widowed now, and can approach her honourably. It is possible that she does not want me, my heart’s desire, my Judith. It is possible that – that she never wanted me – as – as I have explained to you. There may be nothing for me, not even friendship. But I must know: I can bear the uncertainty no longer. I beg, Sir, that you will find her, and give her this.’

I could see that my friend was uncertain of his ability to help: love affairs were not easy for him to manage, for that intellect which saw so clearly into the evil deeds and wicked secrets of men’s brains failed sometimes to fathom their hearts. He had put love aside so often, deeming it unworthy of him – or sometimes, I believed, himself unworthy of love – that he stepped unsurely where a man of lesser intelligence might stride with confidence.

He had said to me, and I believe that he believed it, that all emotions -  and love particularly - were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He considered himself to be, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has ever seen. He claimed that as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position, and so in public he never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer – excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions – or so he said. But not for him, he said.

And yet, I did not believe him. When he said that for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental result, I saw only the great heart that moved him to use his reason in the service of humanity.

When he told me that grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his, I understood that he protected himself from the passions that he believed would ruin him. No greater heart than his beat on the earth, although he denied it to any that might cherish its greatness. And so I persuaded him to take Ruth’s case, for I knew once heart was engaged in her service, the rest would follow.

It was a simple matter for a man of such ability to find Ruth’s lost love – for love she was. She had strayed far in distance, but not, it seemed, beyond reach. Holmes had all manner of leads at his disposal, and there came a day when he and I together stood before her. We placed Ruth’s letter in her hand and told her that she was wanted, was sorely missed, longed for . . .

 

**_. . . neither can the seas drown it . . ._ **

_My dearest Judith,_

_I write to you, at the end of so many years, after the death of my spouse, and with you still solitary, to tell you what I can only now tell you honourably. My heart is yours. My heart has always been yours. I was wrong to marry, and you were wrong to despair. Whatever your fate, I have been fated to remain faithful, let betide what may. I do not know where this letter will go. I do not know if it will reach you. I do not know your mind, or your heart, as once I did. Forgive me my failure, forgive me my weakness – forgive me my marriage, as I forgive you your despair, your unbelief. Only come back to me. There is no exile in the world that is worse than exile from you. There is no place in the world that is not hell without you. Call me, for wherever you go, I will follow you. As with my namesake, I swear that your people will be my people, and your gods my gods._

_I am yours, unalterably, forever, Ruth._

‘Will you come home?’ I asked her, after she had read it. ‘She has waited for you a long time, Judith. Will you come home?’


End file.
